


Doubt Truth To Be A Liar

by LilyK



Category: Ladder of Swords (1990), The Professionals
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Crossover, Drama, M/M, Post-Series, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 16:07:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11444343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyK/pseuds/LilyK
Summary: While on walkabout in Spain, Bodie meets a man who reminds him of his beloved deceased partner.





	Doubt Truth To Be A Liar

**Author's Note:**

> No knowledge of the film, Ladder of Swords, is necessary to read this story.

\---------------------------------  
Doubt thou the stars are fire  
Doubt that the sun doth move  
Doubt truth to be a liar  
But never doubt I love  
\--"Hamlet" William Shakespeare

\--------------------------------

Bodie's tired legs carried him towards a café, the front entrance of which was graced with a red and white striped awning. One of the things he liked about hiking through Spain was that even the smallest town seemed to have a decent place to eat and have a cold beer. The building looked inviting, and the quaint cobble-stoned street in front of it lent itself to the picturesque air of the village. 

He shifted the haversack strapped to his back. His boots felt strangely heavy as he made his way the last few strides to the café. Bodie stood for a moment in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust. It was cool and dim inside, the air permeated by tantalising smells of well-prepared cuisine. This was just the sort of place he needed for his midday break. 

Walking across the dining room, he wound his way through the lunch crowd and found an empty table in the rear. He stowed his gear underneath and settled back to relax. 

An attractive young woman wearing a spotless apron approached his table. In fairly decent Spanish, Bodie ordered a beer and the daily special he'd seen listed on the caulk-board outside. The waitress thanked him cordially before leaving with his order, but she didn't try to engage him in further conversation in spite of the warm smile he tossed her way. 

Bodie raised an eyebrow, wondering if he'd lost his touch. Generally, even at his age, birds tended to flirt with him on sight. With a quiet chuckle at his own bit of arrogance, he leaned back, stretched out his legs and crossed his arms. He'd walked well over twelve miles since sunrise, and he was glad for the respite. 

Contemplating the next part of his journey, Bodie pulled the map from his jacket pocket and studied it while he waited for his order. He had plenty of time to make it to the next stop he'd marked, a coastal town. After hiking inland for several weeks, he was looking forward to spending two or three days on the seashore. 

The woman returned and placed a mug of beer in front of him. 

"Thanks, love," Bodie responded in English, giving her another inviting grin. 

The woman smiled in return, finally brightening under Bodie's attention. "My pleasure," she answered, also in English. 

Bodie lifted the glass to her, then took a long drink of the icy liquid. "Perfect." 

This time when she left, the waitress gave him an interested glance over her shoulder. Bodie grinned. Maybe he'd spend a night in this picturesque town before he moved on. 

The food arrived, looking wonderful and smelling delicious. 

"Enjoy your meal," the waitress said. 

"I intend to," he said sincerely. 

As he was finishing, Bodie was grateful when another beer appeared before him, courtesy of the helpful waitress. He smiled up at her. 

"Grazias... Señorita?" 

"Sí, Señor. It is señorita." 

"I'm Bodie." 

"Dorothea." 

"A pretty name. And this is a very nice place." 

"Thank you, Señor Bodie. I like it as well." 

With nothing to lose, Bodie said plainly, "I fancy a quiet evening and good company. When do you finish up here?" 

"At nine," Dorothea replied. From her faint blush and the twinkle in her eyes, she clearly understood his invitation. 

The front door to the café opened and, unconsciously, Bodie shifted his attention to the new arrival. A throw-back to his CI5 days. A habit he hadn't been able to shake, at least not in the past five years, since he'd finally walked away from that life. 

A man entered, but the bright sunlight from the open door behind him put his face in shadows. Bodie glanced up at Dorothea. "I'd like to-" 

Another quick look at the new arrival as the man started across the room, and Bodie's words died in his throat. The woman suddenly forgotten, Bodie slowly rose, barely able to breathe as the man got closer, and their eyes met. Oh, God... 

To Bodie, it felt like forever till he found the wherewithal to move. He had to tell himself to take a step, and even then, he merely stumbled forward, almost falling. 

Only the man's strong hands kept him from sprawling face down on the floor. 

"Are you all right?" the man asked. 

Bodie clutched the man's coat sleeves, his mouth opening and closing in shock as he found his feet. He stood and stared unrepentantly, unable to drag his gaze away. 

Green eyes studied him in obvious concern. "Do you need help?" 

Bodie swallowed around the huge lump in his throat before he finally said, "Doyle?" 

"No. Sorry," the man said with a shake of his head. "Listen, you look ill. Why don't you sit down?" Bodie allowed the man to guide him back into his seat. "How about a brandy, Dorothea-love?" 

Bodie barely registered the woman's departure and return. It was only after the glass was pressed into his hand and he managed to raise it shakily to his lips that he was able to think. 

"Who are you?" he asked bluntly. 

"Excuse me?" the man said, amusement glinting in his eyes. 

"You look exactly like -- somebody I knew. Once. A long time ago." 

Bodie knew he sounded like an idiot, but this man... This man was Ray Doyle. Even as the thought occurred to him, he realised that the very idea was ludicrous. Doyle was -- gone. Dead. Blown to bits in a terrorist bombing back in '84. The 22nd of June, 1984, at 2:43 pm, to be exact. Bodie knew exactly when and where and how. It was burned into his brain as nothing else in his life ever had been, or ever would be. 

And he knew exactly how long it had been since that day: nine years, seven months, and twenty-eight days. If he looked at his watch, he could calculate the hours, minutes and seconds as well. If he could have taken his eyes off the man sitting next to him. 

If nothing else, this man was Doyle's duplicate. Upon further examination, he could see the differences. Small but telling to Bodie, somebody who knew -- and loved -- Doyle well. 

This bloke had Doyle's eyes, but his hair... The shoulder-length brown hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck and tied with leather strip. A few wavy tendrils escaped the confines of the tie and tumbled over the man's ears. Bodie ached to run his fingers through the locks, to sniff them, to- 

Cruelly stamping out his wayward thoughts, Bodie forced himself to study the eerily familiar face. He was amazed at himself as he reached out and almost touched the man's cheek. The right side of his face was in shadows, and Bodie longed to see his features more clearly. 

"What?" the man asked as he gazed at Bodie's hand, still hovering in mid-air. "Okay. Let's try this. Hello, I'm Don DeMarco. And you are...?" 

"Bodie." 

"All right. Good. We're making progress. So you think I look like somebody you knew. From your reaction, I'd say somebody you haven't seen in a while. Right?" 

"Yes," Bodie admitted. "But your voice, your hair... It isn't right. Your eyes, though..." 

He heard his voice shaking, and he was more than shocked when his hand continued forward, seemingly of its own volition. But he couldn't stop. He had to know. 

DeMarco sat very still, his eyes fixed on Bodie's fingers as they came closer, but he remained in his seat. When Bodie gently touched DeMarco's chin and turned his head to the side, the man was the picture of forbearance. 

When Bodie looked at that face in the better lighting, he had to stifle a gasp. It was there: the damaged cheekbone. This was impossible to comprehend. No two people could be so much alike, right down to the same old injury. It had to be Doyle. And Doyle had to have recognised him, even if almost ten years had passed since they'd last seen each other. Why would he deny it? And besides, Doyle was dead, for chrissakes... Wasn't he? 

Suddenly confused, angry and hurt, Bodie retreated behind a cold façade. Still, he couldn't keep himself from staring. 

"Bodie, is it?" At Bodie's curt nod, the man smiled. "You're really freaking me out here, mate." 

"You're what? British? From the North coast? The accent isn't quite right." He couldn't keep himself from sounding like some great sodding moron. This obviously wasn't Doyle. Not his Ray, and yet... In spite of the hair and the voice, everything about the man screamed "Doyle" to him. 

"Why don't you tell me about this... friend." 

"I don't..." Bodie cleared his throat, and finally found his voice, and his feet. He rose and yanked his haversack out from under the table. "Never talk about him. Forget it." 

There was no way he would sit here and let all the anguish and hurt he'd felt when Doyle had died resurface. It had taken him years to find some sort of peace, and this stranger, who looked so much like his dead partner... 

Digging into his pocket, he tossed a wad of cash onto the table and with one last glance at -- him, he all but ran out of the café. 

\---------------------------------

All thoughts of a good meal forgotten, DeMarco remained seated at the deserted table. The man -- Bodie -- he seemed so familiar! Handsome too, that much he admitted, but what else? Something niggled at his brain, but he couldn't quite get a handle on it. He thought about how he'd felt when he'd been talking to Bodie, and with surprise, he realised he'd felt -- safe. And strangely captivated. With a groan at his own foolish reactions, he leapt from the seat and raced out the door. 

On the pavement, DeMarco glanced left, then right, but there was no sign of the intriguing stranger. He approached an older woman sitting at an outside table. 

Switching automatically to Spanish, he said, "Excuse me, please. Did you see a dark-haired man carrying a knapsack come by?" 

The woman gave him a pleasant smile and pointed the way. 

"Thank you!" DeMarco called back over his shoulder, already trotting across the street to climb into his truck. He pulled out and gunned the engine, tearing off in the direction indicated. He was surprised at the relief he felt when he finally caught sight of Bodie walking briskly down the road that led away from town. He pulled up alongside.

"Hello." 

Bodie glanced over before his head snapped forward. Never once did he break his stride. 

"I wish you'd let me give you a lift," DeMarco said, unwilling to let whatever had happened between them disappear without further examination. "Please. I'd like to talk to you." 

Bodie's face revealed nothing, but from the set of his shoulders and the clench of his fist around one of the straps of his haversack, DeMarco could tell that the man was more upset than angry. He wondered how he could read a man he'd just met minutes ago, but the idea that he somehow understood this man didn't bother him in the least. Instead, he found it a comfort. 

Bodie finally paused and blew out a quick breath. "Why?" 

"Why do I wish to talk to you?" At Bodie's curt nod, he answered, "Don't know. I feel -- as if I should know you. Daft, eh?" 

"So you are British." 

"Yes." 

"But that accent..." 

DeMarco knew he was being tested, and that his answer would either send Bodie on his way or else assuage him enough to at least agree to a conversation. He rarely discussed himself with anybody, let alone complete strangers, and he almost waved Bodie off and drove away. But something in those blue eyes seemed to draw him in. The feeling of safety returned, and with it, trust. If he hadn't known better, he'd even have added love at first sight in that unusual mix. Going with his gut instinct, he gave Bodie a half-hearted smile. 

"You want the story of my life? It's a boring story, really. But if you must know, I was in a coma, and it affected my brain. When I regained consciousness, I couldn't walk, couldn't talk. The honest truth is that I couldn't even remember my own name. Had to learn to do everything all over again." 

He gave Bodie an embarrassed smile. "The speech therapist was from London. The ten or twelve other residents of the care facility where I was living were from various parts of England, and the head nurse was Irish. They were all determined to help when I started to speak, so I think it's a big mix-up of everybody in the sodding place. Anyway, I don't know where I'm from. I'm a creature of the world," he added theatrically. At Bodie sceptical expression, DeMarco said seriously, "The brain damage and the amnesia messed with my head, so I don't really remember much from before." 

"Before?" 

"Before '85 or so." 

DeMarco never took his eyes from Bodie, and he gauged the man's reactions to his story. He saw a flash of surprise that was quickly replaced by interest and something else he couldn't quite decipher. If asked to put a name on it, he'd have called it expectation. Those reactions piqued his curiosity, and he was pleased when Bodie at last nodded, albeit curtly. He leaned across the seat to unlock the other door, and Bodie walked around the car, then climbed into the passenger seat. 

"We'll go to my place, if that's okay with you," DeMarco said. 

"Got any beer?" 

"Yeah, I have beer. And if you want to stay to supper, I can even cook something for you if you ask nicely." 

He cast Bodie an encouraging grin, then waited as his companion studied him for a long moment before one side of his mouth raised into a quirky smile. 

"I'm lousy at cooking, but I can do the washing up," Bodie offered. 

"Deal." DeMarco put the truck in gear and started driving towards home. 

\---------------------------------------

Bodie wiped his mouth on the napkin before balling it up and tossing it onto his plate. "Good pasta." 

"Thanks. More wine?" 

"Half a glass. I don't drink much anymore." 

"Anymore?" 

"Used to be able to put away a good bit of scotch in my day. Then, for a time, it became a bit of a problem, so I don't indulge much these days." Bodie shrugged dismissively. 

"Was it after you lost your friend?" 

Bodie stiffened. "What?" 

"Sorry. I just figured-" 

"Don't." 

"He was that important?" DeMarco asked. 

"I'm not talking about him." 

"Why not?" 

Bodie ignored both the question and the look of sympathy DeMarco tossed his way. 

After another sip of wine, DeMarco said, "I've found that it helps to talk about the people I cared about who've passed on. It keeps them alive in my mind." 

"I'm not much for spilling my guts about personal things." 

"I'm not asking you to spill your guts. I'm just asking you to share something about your friend. What was he like?" 

Bodie took a swallow of his own wine before he said, "The best. Brave, strong..." He smiled. "A pain in the arse. Hot-headed. Loyal." 

"He sounds like a good bloke." 

Bodie looked up sharply, but he saw no trace of irony in the other man's face. Relaxing a little, he said, "What about you? The people you care about..." 

"Lost my girl a couple of years back. Leukaemia. She went quick. Alice. I cared about her." 

"Loved her?" 

DeMarco lifted a shoulder. "She was -- nice, but…." There was a moment's painful silence before he added, "She wasn't the love of my life, but I cared for her." 

Bodie wanted, more than anything, to ask about the love of his life, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. Instead, he said, "Tell me about your accident." 

"Accident?" 

"Your amnesia." 

"Oh, that," DeMarco said. "Really, I don't know much about it. I only know what I was told when I woke up." 

"And where was that?" 

"Newcastle. I was in a plane crash. There were three bodies and me. I was still alive, obviously. The people who found me saved my life. Got me to hospital. When I didn't wake up, I was moved to a long-term care place. I was out of it for seventy-two days." He paused, lifting his glass to his lips. 

Bodie leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Sounds rough," he said. 

DeMarco chuckled dryly. "Certainly wasn't the most fun I've ever had. It took me a good year to recover enough so I could walk out of that place. But here I am." With a flourish, he threw out his arms, and if they hadn't been sitting at the table, Bodie would have expected the berk to take a bow. 

"That's quite a story. Aren't you curious about your life before? Don't you want to know who you were?" DeMarco looked suddenly wary, and Bodie knew in that instant there was more to the story. More than DeMarco was willing to tell. 

"I am who I am, Bodie. Don DeMarco, ex-circus performer and, presently, motorbike mechanic." 

"Like bikes, do you?" 

"Yeah, a lot." DeMarco set his glass down. "Used to have one. Once." His hand visibly shook, knocking the glass over and spilling the wine. "Damn it. Sorry." He rose abruptly. 

"What's wrong?" Bodie asked, also rising and moping at the spill with a tea towel. 

"I didn't... I've never owned a motorbike of my own." 

"But you just said..."

Eyes wide, DeMarco said, "I just remembered that. From before." 

Bodie met his surprised gaze. "From before '85? Before the accident?" 

"Yeah." 

"Does that happen often?" 

"Sometimes. It's always a bit of a shock, you know? I don't really think about all of that. It's like -- somebody else's life." 

"Can I show you something?" Bodie asked, wondering if it was wise to dredge up things he might come to regret. But he had to know. Had to find out. Because if what he was feeling was true, Doy- DeMarco had a right to know. And so did he. 

Bodie rummaged in his haversack until he found the small leather folder. He stood, running a finger over the surface as he stared at the worn brown cover, before he held it out. 

"Photographs." 

"Of your friend?" DeMarco asked. 

"Yes. And another bloke. A mutual friend of ours." 

DeMarco accepted the folder and opened it, but with his head bent, Bodie couldn't see his eyes. He needed to see the man's eyes, to see if DeMarco had any sense of recognition at the photographs of Ray Doyle, and of George Cowley. 

DeMarco continued to study the photographs. Finally, after a long minute, he raised his head and said softly, "I know him." He tapped Cowley's picture. "I don't know why, but I know him!" 

"He was our boss. George Cowley." 

"Cowley... The other picture? It looks like me, doesn't it? Except for the hair." DeMarco's hand reached up to run his fingers through his own unruly locks. "Oh, God." The photo album fell from his fingers. 

"Ray?" The name came unbidden, but DeMarco seemed not to notice. Bodie clenched his teeth. This man was too much like Doyle to be just a doppelgänger. Everything about him, every gesture and the way he held himself, told Bodie that that this was Ray Doyle, his dead partner come back to life. 

And he suddenly knew how he could discover the truth. One kiss, and there'd be no more doubt. No one could ever kiss him like Doyle had. 

Bodie moved a step closer, and before he could ponder the stupidity of his actions, he reached out and put his hands on DeMarco's shoulders. 

"I want to-" Bodie cleared his throat. "I need to kiss you." 

DeMarco's head came up sharply, a look of pure bewilderment on his face. "What? Kiss me?" He scrutinised Bodie and then started to laugh. 

The sound of DeMarco's laughter sent a shiver through Bodie. Another thing he would have recognised anywhere: Doyle's laugh. Bodie was stunned when he saw the final piece of evidence: as DeMarco laughed, he revealed an unmistakable chipped front tooth. Bodie scooped the folder up from the floor. 

"Look at the picture!" Bodie ordered, shaking DeMarco's shoulders. "Look!" 

DeMarco rolled his eyes. "You and – You and Doyle were lovers?" 

Bodie shook him harder. "Damn you. Look! What do you see in the photograph?" 

"Why don't you tell me?" DeMarco asked, amusement colouring his tone. 

"Look at Doyle's mouth! Look at the fucking picture! Doyle had a chipped front tooth. Just like you! The tooth. The broken cheek... Now do you believe me?" 

The laughter quickly faded. "It… can't be!" He again studied the photograph then raised his head. "Oh, Christ. It is me! Him! I'm... Doyle?" 

"Yes. God help me, yes. You're my -- partner. Raymond Doyle." 

"I don't understand... What the hell happened? You said something about him... me being your partner. I thought you meant business partners, or something." 

"Oh, it was some business all right. CI5, they called us."

"You're CI5?" Doyle's face was suddenly unreadable. 

"We were partners for almost ten years with that mob before you disappeared." 

"Disappeared?" Doyle blurted out. 

"Well, technically, you were killed in a terrorist bombing, along with fifty-two other people. The bodies were-" Bodie grimaced, remembering that day, that week, that month all too clearly. 

Doyle shook his head, his eyes bright. "What if... What if you're wrong? What if I'm not your -- Doyle? What if I believe you and then it all goes away? Then what? Where does that leave me?" 

"Eh? Leave you?" 

"There's something between us. I can feel it. If I'm not your Doyle, then what? I can't be somebody I'm not, even if you want to me be. Even if I want to be!" Doyle tried to pull away. 

Bodie felt the slim body tremble. "Tell me everything you remember. Please. We'll figure this out together. I swear it. On my mum's sainted head, I swear I'll stand by you, no matter what. Please give me, give us the chance to work this out." It was hard to keep the note of desperation from his voice. 

Doyle groaned softly. "God..." 

Bodie used every ounce of courage he possessed to make himself stand silently before this man and let him decide. The silence lengthened as green eyes examined him, seeming to look straight into his soul. 

It was with a huff of breath that Doyle finally whispered, "All right."

Bodie almost cried with relief. "Ray-" 

"Don't, please. It's Don, and before that..." 

"Before that?" 

"Denise showed me my form! For God's sake, I saw it!" Doyle finally pulled out of Bodie's grasp and turned away, his hands clenched. 

"Whose form? Who's Denise? What are you talking about?" 

Head bent, Doyle sighed, his shoulders slumping. "My wife." 

"But you said your girl's name was Alice." 

"Alice was my girlfriend. Denise was with me... Shit. Denise looked after me in the nursing home. We ran away together when she said..." Doyle raised his head, and Bodie could see the pain in his eyes. 

Bodie longed to take Doyle into his arms, but he knew that it was too soon. Doyle was in pain, and confused. He needed to understand, to work through this entire mess in his head before he would be ready for anything even close to what Bodie had shared with him before, in another lifetime. They both needed to come to terms with what had happened. 

Bodie held himself in check. He recalled vividly how demonstrative he'd been with his Doyle in private. Always touching, kissing, loving him. They'd fought and teased, and cared about and for each other with abandon when they were away from prying eyes, even as they maintained their professional demeanour on the job. Cowley had insisted on that, of course.

"What did she say, Ray- Don." Bodie's resolve crumbled. "Can't do it, Doyle. I can't. Not after all these years. After missing you so much! I can't call you by that other name. Please." 

Doyle gave a small nod. "All right," he answered, sounding dejected. 

Bodie saw how much all of this was affecting Doyle, so he said, "How about I make coffee, and we'll sit and talk, eh?" Again, Doyle nodded. Bodie couldn't help but reach out and gently touch a single finger to his cheek. "Sit down, then. You've had a shock." 

Bodie fixed the coffee, finding everything he needed without direction from his still-silent partner. He was glad to have something to do with his hands, which shook slightly, he noticed, much to his chagrin. Still, finding Doyle was a shock in itself. God alone knew how he'd feel when the idea of Doyle being alive finally sunk in. For now, he was determined to focus on helping Doyle through this in any way he needed. 

Once they were both settled with cups of hot coffee, he persuaded Doyle to tell his tale: 

"That year I was recovering, Denise was with me every step of the way. One night, she came into my room crying, and shoved a paper into my hands. She told me she'd got a friend of hers to somehow run my prints through the computer, and they came back showing form." 

"Christ, tell me she didn't!" 

"Didn't what?" 

"Oh, God." Bodie pressed his palm to his aching head. "It was still in the computers. You were dead, and Cowley was on the warpath. It never crossed my mind, and I can guarantee you it didn't cross his either." And if it had occurred to them for just one second that it would have made a difference... "When she ran your prints, they came back with a name on them, didn't they? Not Ray Doyle, and not Don-bloody-DeMarco." 

"Yeah, but-?" 

"You were undercover. You'd infiltrated an IRA cell operating in London. Your cover was that you'd been convicted of armed robbery and escaped from prison. You needed a place to hide. You were sympathetic to their cause. Hated the government, coppers, and had no qualms about using a weapon. You were a bloody terrorist's dream.” 

Bodie rubbed at his eyes and let out a groan. "There were thousands of lives at stake. Your cover was iron clad. There'd been a big bullion heist so Cowley had your picture put out as being part of the gang. You even cut your hair and grew a moustache for the pictures. The newspapers were full of it. Damn it, Doyle. I'm so sorry!" 

"The album," Doyle said tensely. "The bloody album." 

"What album?" 

"She had all the newspaper clippings about the heist and my escape pasted into this album, along with our wedding picture and photographs of her and her mum and dad. She kept all of it and never let me forget. Never. She told me who I was, what my name was, and I never doubted it for a moment." He paused, his eyes bright. "Christ, what a mess!" Doyle shook his head before burying his face in his hands. 

Bodie reached out and put a hand on Doyle's shoulder. When he raised his head, Bodie licked his lips. 

"Eugene Sullivan," Bodie said. 

Doyle looked stunned before he whispered, "Bloody hell. I am Ray Doyle." 

\----------------------------------------- 

"Denise and I got married a couple of months after we'd gone on the road. Started doing jobs here and there until one day we came across this caravan for sale. It'd been owned by a circus performer, so we paid 300 quid for it, and I got myself an act.

"She knew about me -- about Sullivan, I mean -- so she kept me in line with her sodding threats. Always telling me she'd go to the coppers and turn me in if I didn't do as she said." Doyle rose and paced the room. "And she was capable of just that. She was a real prize, that one." He scrubbed face with his hands, like he could wash away ten years of memories at a single stroke. Then, quietly, he added, "She even killed my bear!" 

"She killed what?" Bodie asked. 

"Daley, the Dancing Bear. We were an act. Were going to travel all over Eastern Europe together." Doyle shook his head, his eyes prickling. "Stupid woman killed him. Killed my bear, stole my money and my truck." He angrily swiped at his eyes. "I loved that bloody bear." 

"What happened?" 

"We were camped out on the moors while I waited for my contact to let me know that we had the job. Coppers said we were trespassing, but really they just hated us because we were gypsies, homeless. They always hate circus folk. Think we're all scum. 

"But circus folk saved my life. They took us in when we didn't have anything. Welcomed us as their own, and let us work on my act. Been a lot of things in the circus, but I wanted to do the act with Daley. Every day, I practised with him. He was a smart bear. I played the fiddle for him, and he loved it. Always calmed him down. He made these little -- grunts whenever I played."

Again, Doyle felt his eyes tear as he thought about Daley. Embarrassed, he went over to the window, keeping his back to Bodie. 

"Hang about. What fiddle?" 

Doyle took one last wipe at his eyes before he went over to a cupboard and opened it, pulling out the old violin. "Haven't touched it since Alice passed on. She loved hearing me play." 

"How did that other one kill your bear?" Bodie asked kindly. 

Doyle glanced over his shoulder at Bodie, who stood behind him. He saw the interest in and the concern for him etched on the strong features, and he knew that, for some reason, he wanted to tell Bodie everything. 

"Alice was working as a secretary to some local landowner. She hired me as a beater for a pheasant shoot..." He chuckled. "When I tried to turn her down, she threatened to evict us from the land since it belonged to her boss. She was a -- forceful woman, but not cruel like Denise.

"While I was out on the moors, Daley somehow managed to get out of his place and got into the caravan where Denise was sleeping. Don't know exactly what happened, but when I got back, the place was a mess, the money I'd stashed in the curry tin was gone, along with my truck and Denise, my dear wife. Daley was eating up everything that he'd got into, including the soap flakes and bleach. Next morning, he was-" Doyle took a sharp breath and let it out slowly. "He was dead. Dug a hole and buried him." 

"Sorry, mate," Bodies said softly, and it sounded heartfelt. 

Ready to dismiss the subject, Doyle joined Bodie on the sofa, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles. "Was a long time ago." 

"Still, he meant something to you." 

DeMarco suddenly saw Daley before him, sitting in his chair, making those sounds he always made. He smiled. "Yeah. He did." He hadn't thought about Daley for a long while, and it felt good to remember him as he once had been. "So there I was: no wife, no truck, and no act. And on top of that, the local DI, Atherton, had it in for me." 

"Didn't like bears, eh?" 

Doyle gave a chuckle. "Not much. Nor travelling folk, as it turned out. He came out and tried to nick me for stealing copper pipe, but Alice gave me an alibi. After that, he was determined to send me up for something, the bastard." 

"You told me once that on every police force, there's always at least one good copper." 

"I did?" Doyle harrumphed. "Wish I still felt that way about coppers." 

"Don't like what they did to you, Ray. You always respected cops, and made me respect them as well. You were one, you know, before CI5." 

"Don't remember being a copper. It doesn't seem like something I'd do." 

"You were good at it. So good that Cowley got you away from them and into CI5. And he only picked the best." 

Doyle smiled. "Thanks for that. Feels – all right, knowing that I was that good at something once." 

"You deserve it, mate. You were- are the best." 

"I still can't believe all of this." 

"I can't either, but I'm bloody glad I found you." 

Doyle turned away from the intense look on Bodie's face; it felt like standing in the path of an approaching wildfire. Shaking his head, he asked, "Where was I?" 

"Atherton." 

"Right. Well, Alice moved in with me. And we moved on. Her employer must have sent out the alarm that she'd gone missing. Bloody Atherton assumed I'd hurt her, so he came 'round to the new camp. I was practising on the bed of nails-" 

"Christ, what a full and formative life you've lived," Bodie cut in. 

"Yeah. Told you I was a man of many talents," Doyle said proudly. "Atherton came and leaned on me -- literally -- while I was on that sodding bed. Hurt like hell!" 

"What a moron! Tell me you offed him." 

"No, I didn't. Thought about it a time or two, though. But I'm not a killer," Doyle said firmly. 

"I know," Bodie agreed, touching Doyle's arm. 

"Ta, mate. I appreciate your faith in me,' Doyle said lightly, but meaning every word. 

"You're my partner, Ray." 

"You make it sound like that explains everything." 

"Does in my book." 

"I like you, Bodie." 

Bodie grinned. "I know." 

"Arrogant bastard." 

"Are you going to tell me what happened next?" 

"Pushy as well." Doyle chuckled at Bodie's daft grin. 

"Denise," Bodie said with a wave of his hand. 

"Denise. Right. Atherton figured if I hadn't killed Alice, I must have killed Denise. Had me brought back to where we'd been parked on the moor. He'd found a grave, and he was bloody sure who was in it. I had to watch while he dug up my bear! The mindless sod. 

"He was convinced I'd killed her and this was his crowning glory. He not only called out the forensics crew, but the blokes from the local newspaper. You can imagine what happened when the only thing they found in that grave was a dead bear. The newspaper had a field day. He got his front page coverage, all right, complete with pictures. I remember the headline clear as day: 'Grave Incident on Beely Moor'." 

"Bet he was a mite upset." 

Doyle gave a snort of amusement. "Just a mite." 

"You liked getting under his skin, I suspect." 

"He wasn't one of those good coppers." 

"Not like you." 

Doyle smiled even as he felt his cheeks flush. "Nice to know that." 

"Did you ever see Denise again?" 

"Unfortunately, yes. She'd been gone for weeks when she popped back up. I'd taken up with Alice by that time. Alice was all right. Even-tempered, sweet. She loved the travelling life as well, and the circus people cared for her. We were doing all right.

"Denise showed up one day where we were camped with the group, claiming her rights to me and the caravan."

"Women," Bodie said disgustingly. 

Doyle rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it. Denise was a real prize, all right. I thought I'd convinced her that I was just using Alice to get at her money. I took Denise for a nice walk on the beach. There was this bloke taking pictures... That's when I knew how to get Atherton off my back. 

"Had our picture taken with me holding that newspaper, showing Atherton's picture nice and clear. Then I posted the photo to him. I hoped that, once he saw me with Denise alive and well, he'd find somebody else to harass. Got Denise a nice hotel room with a fridge full of booze and gave her some cash. She agreed to stay put, but that night, when Alice and I got back to the caravan, Denise was in our bed!" 

"You're joking," Bodie said. 

"I wish I was. She was drunk, and she tried to convince Alice that we'd shagged, but Alice wasn't having any of it. I tossed her arse out the door." Doyle stood and began to pace. "Alice was afraid that Denise would go to the police. She thought we ought to go after Denise and talk some sense into her. 

"We caught up with her at the funfair. She was going from ride to ride, turning them on as she went. I lost sight of her... I'll never really know what happened, but I heard the bell ring on the high striker-" At Bodie's confused look, Doyle explained, "It's the strong man attraction. You hit the lever with a mallet and the bell rises up the grid to show your strength. Ring the bell and get a prize." 

"Oh, right. Went to a carnival once when I was a lad." 

"Only once?" 

"Ran away to sea when I was fourteen." 

Doyle chewed on his lower lip as he thought for a moment. He sat back down and mused aloud, "Wonder if I have a family." 

Bodie moved closer. "Doyle, mate, your mum was still all right last time I checked. Your little sister has three kids, and she's doing okay." 

"I missed a lot, didn't I?" 

"We'll be all right." 

"You keep saying that like you have some control over what happens," Doyle said sharply, crossing his arms. 

Bodie looked like he'd just been punched in the gut. "I don't have any control," he said roughly. "If I did, I wouldn't have lost you ten years ago!" 

"All right. All right. Sorry. I'm just so – confused." Slumping back, Doyle covered his face with his hands, groaning. "What a mess." 

"If you're knackered, I can go." 

"No!" Doyle swallowed hard before he said, "No, don't go. Stay. The sofa's not too bad, and I'd like it if you'd stay." 

"I'd like that. And I'd like it if you'd finish telling me your story. I need to hear it. I need to understand everything that's happened to you." 

"And I want to tell you. I don't know why, but it's important that you hear it all." 

"I'm listening." 

Gathering his thoughts, Doyle said, "She'd somehow hit the pressure release on the striker, and being drunk, she'd probably stumbled back. The metal block smacked her right on top of her head. By the time I got there, she was already dead. It was a stupid accident. I didn't kill her!" 

"Doyle, I know you didn't kill her! Just calm down." 

There was a note of command in Bodie's voice, and Doyle found it strangely compelling, even calming. "Okay. All right," he said, wanting to get the whole story out into the open. "So, I panicked. Atherton was already hell bent on putting me behind bars, and now Denise was really dead. It wasn't our fault, but no one would've believed us. So Alice came up with an idea. A good idea. We took Denise out to where my bear was buried-" 

"You didn't! That's bloody brilliant. After Atherton had already dug up the bear!" 

"Wasn't me, mate. It was Alice. I was just scared to death. I was shaking so hard I couldn't think straight. I'd been inside before..." Doyle grinned sheepishly at Bodie's shaking head. "I guess I've never been in prison, then, have I? Since I couldn't remember much, I didn't question the idea that I'd done time." He thought about the implications of that statement. "Christ, Bodie, I didn't question anything Denise told me!" he said angrily. "Sodding bitch! You might have found me years ago if she hadn't done what she'd done!" 

His outburst this time was met with silence. Suddenly aware that the atmosphere had changed, Doyle put a hand on Bodie's arm. "Are you okay?" he asked. 

"No," Bodie admitted. "I'm angry as hell. I hate that all of this happened to you and that I wasn't with you. But now-- I've found you, and I'm not ever letting you out of my sight."

"Going to live in each other's pockets, eh?" At Bodie's grin, Doyle smiled in return and turned sideways, tucking a leg up. "What did you do after Doyle- after I died?" 

"Stayed with the Squad for a few more years. When Cowley finally retired, I didn't have the heart for it any more, so I went on the road. I've been travelling ever since. I've been to every country in Europe, North and South America, China." 

"You must have done well enough to be able to turn into a vagabond." 

"I took my pension and put it into a new field back in the mid-eighties. Personal computers. Made a few quid," Bodie said with a grin. "Twenty-eight million of them in eight years, actually." 

Doyle couldn't hide his surprise. "Twenty-eight million pounds?" 

"Give or take." 

"My God, Bodie. I remember you were always squirrelling away your earnings, but I didn't think you would turn it into millions!" 

Bodie stared at Doyle for a long moment. He said, "You remember?" 

"What?" 

"You said you remembered. Does that mean you remembered something about me?" 

Doyle paused before answering. This was too important not to get exactly right. "I don't not remember you. I just never have had cause to remember you before. Had dreams over the years, but nothing ever made sense. I remember guns and bombs and killing. I remember shooting people, but I always reckoned that was before the accident, when I was Sullivan and all. But now... It's there, Bodie. I feel it. I know you're here," he said, pointing to his head. "And here," he added, putting his palm over his heart. "Can feel it." 

Doyle liked the way Bodie watched him as he spoke, and he liked how Bodie put one hand on his shoulder, the other over his hand. Then Bodie leaned forward and touched their foreheads together. They sat quietly as if lost in one another's thoughts. 

Finally, Bodie said, "I can feel it as well. And Doyle?" 

"Yes?" 

"When in bloody hell did you learn to play the violin?" 

\-------------------------------------

"I need a drink," Bodie groused, leaning over as he searched through a cupboard. 

"Wine's gone. I've got beer. That's about it." 

"It'll do." 

Doyle pulled two bottles of cold beer from the fridge, opened one and passed it to Bodie. He opened his own, then tossed the caps into the kitchen sink. 

"Doyle?" When he didn't respond, Bodie touched his shoulder, making him start. "Sorry. Called you, but you were miles away." 

"Thinking. All of this," Doyle ran a hand down Bodie's arm, "is hard to take in." 

"I know. Can I ask you something?" 

"Fire away. I'll answer if I can." 

"What happened to your hair?" 

"My hair?" Doyle asked, running his fingers through it. "My hair... Oh, wait! The photograph. He- I had curly hair! Hang about." Forehead wrinkled in thought, he said, "I had it permed! Hey, I remember that!" 

"Eh? Permed?" 

"Yes! Thank you!" Doyle threw his arms around Bodie, beer flying out of his bottle and splashing Bodie on his shoulder and head. "I remember! I had it permed!" 

"You never told me!" Bodie laughed, hugging Doyle in return. 

"A bloke's allowed to have a few secrets, mate." 

"Are there any more I should know? You haven't been circumcised since I last-" Bodie found himself looking into amused green eyes. 

"Since you last...?" 

Bodie felt himself blushing. "I didn't mean- Christ, Doyle, for me it was like yesterday! I remember everything. How you look, how you taste-" 

"How I taste?" 

"Your lips. Your cock. I remember. God help me, but I remember everything." 

"Then you'll have to remember for me as well." 

Bodie nodded. "I can do that." 

He moved forward until their lips touched. Familiarity and longing melded, and he groaned softly, his arms tightening. Doyle stiffened for barely a moment and then Bodie felt the acquiescence. Not wanting to overwhelm his long-lost lover, Bodie pulled back from the kiss after only a few searing moments. 

"Bloody hell," Bodie whispered, and licked his lips. 

Doyle nodded, pressing his fingers against his own mouth. "I- I remember kissing you. I remember," he said in a voice full of wonder. "I remember." 

Bodie felt himself choke up, and he pulled Doyle close. They clung to each other for a long time. 

\------------------------------------

Epilogue

"Wake up, lover." 

Doyle groaned when Bodie's warm fingers snaked under the blankets and tickled his ribs. "Wanker," he groused. "Go away! It's Sunday, and I want to sleep." 

Bodie apparently had other ideas because he flopped down onto the bed and gnawed on Doyle's exposed shoulder. "Happy Birthday." 

Doyle grinned into the pillow, a shiver of delight running down his spine. "Is it my birthday?" 

"You know it is. Berk," Bodie said with affection. His wandering hand wandered even further. 

Doyle laughed, pulling away from the teasing fingers. "Leave off!" 

Bodie moved away, pulling on Doyle's arm. "Come on, Ray. Get up. I have a surprise for you." 

Doyle raised his head and blinked the last of the sleep from his eyes. He glanced at his lover's face, and he gave a theatrical sigh. He could never deny an exuberant Bodie anything. 

"A surprise? Had enough surprises to last a lifetime, mate. Rather have you in bed." Doyle reached out to grab Bodie's arm and yank him down. Quick as a snap, Doyle got himself onto his back with Bodie on top of him. Then he captured Bodie's lips for a proper good-morning. 

They kissed for many minutes, nibbling each other's mouths, until Bodie pushed himself away. 

"Now, Ray!" Bodie insisted. "Come on! It's your first birthday since I dragged your sorry arse home, and I want to celebrate." 

"You're more excited about me having a birthday than I am," Doyle groused. "I really don't need anything. I have everything I want right here, with you." He rolled his eyes at the look of pained patience on Bodie's face. "All right. Stop with the pouting." He rose and found his discarded tracksuit bottoms. "Lead on, McDuff." 

Bodie immediately started tugging on Doyle's hand. "Hurry up! And it's not 'lead on', you cretin. It's "Lay on, McDuff." 

Doyle followed, rubbing his eyes. "Eh?" 

"Never mind!" Bodie called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the back hall. "Wait right there!" 

He was back almost at once with something in his arms. Doyle's mouth dropped open when Bodie transferred the furry black bundle into his arms. 

"He's a Newfoundland. Twelve weeks old. He'll be big when he's full grown, but I thought... He kind of looks like a bear, don't you think?" Bodie said excitedly, although Doyle could hear the hint of indecision in his words. 

Doyle felt a flush of love rush through him. Bodie would do anything to make him happy; it was humbling yet endlessly reassuring. 

Bodie prattled on. "He's black and sort of walks like a little bear. Do you like him?" 

Doyle blinked rapidly, burying his nose in the warm curly fur on the puppy's back. It took a few moments before he could speak. "He's beautiful." 

"Hey," Bodie rested a hand on the back of Doyle's neck and rubbed. "He was supposed to make you smile, not to get you all weepy on me." 

"Berk." Doyle swallowed around the lump in his throat. "I am happy. And I love him. Thank you." Doyle turned the puppy to rub his belly. "He's just beautiful," he repeated before he put the puppy onto the floor, where it promptly piddled before attacking his toes. Laughing, Doyle walked backwards. "He does look just like a little bear." 

Bodie looked so pleased he practically bounced. "He'll be a big bear in a few months! What are you going to call him?" 

"I think I'll call him -- Bear." 

"I think your little Bear might need a trip outside." 

Doyle shook his head, still grinning, he was sure, like some nutter. "Nah. Look. He's already peed on the floor. He'll be fine." 

As if in answer to Doyle's words, the puppy squatted and presented his new owner with a small brown surprise of his own. 

"You get to clean up after him," Bodie said with a laugh. 

Doyle laughed as well, even as he cleaned up. That done, he picked up the puppy. "Come on, you." The puppy wiggled and turned until his nose was under Doyle's chin, his pink tongue flicking out. Doyle chuckled. "Never had a dog before." 

"No? Neither have I. It will be a new experience." 

"I'll take him outside and introduce him to the garden." 

"You hungry?" 

"Starving!" Doyle responded, leaning over the puppy to kiss Bodie soundly. "Thank you." 

"Sure, mate," Bodie said, ruffling Doyle's hair. "Go on. Take Bear outdoors. It's a beautiful morning. I'll call you when food's ready." 

"Make plenty. Bear and I are hungry." 

\-----------------------------------------

Bodie stood at the sink, doing the washing up. Doyle was outside in the garden with Bear. The sun shone and the garden was alight with colour. Doyle had spent many hours outside, planting, weeding and raking. He loved that garden. Bodie hadn't wanted to buy this cottage because the garden had been such a disaster, but Doyle had insisted. He'd transformed the weed-infested plot into a wonder. 

Bodie watched, grinning, as Doyle spoke to the puppy, who sat at his feet, looking up intently at his new master. Bodie snickered. The daft animal had the same look of adoration on his face that Bodie knew he often had on his own face when he looked at Doyle. Bloody Doyle. He made Bodie feel all sorts of things he never reckoned he'd feel. Love. Protectiveness. Comfort. Amusement. Contentment. 

They had their moments when they snapped at each other, and they'd even had a row or two, but all in all, the past months had been wonderful. Sex with Doyle was amazing. He was a sodding chameleon, changing all the time. Yielding and passive one time, then rough and demanding the next. Bodie liked that he never knew what to expect. 

He smiled watching Doyle crouch down to scratch Bear's head, and he could hear the low murmur of his voice through the open window. 

Bodie was happy beyond measure that Doyle seemed happy; he'd been through a lot since they'd returned to England from Spain over ten months ago. There were, in all likelihood, still a few trials to suffer. But Bodie was content that he'd now be with Doyle to help him through it all. 

The doctors had told them that a full recovery might never happen. It was strange the way the human brain worked, and Doyle's memory, or lack thereof, was definitely an unpredictable thing. 

Doyle had recognised Cowley, and their reunion had surprised Bodie. He'd never seen Cowley quite so emotional before, and the old man's pleasure at seeing Doyle alive and well gave Bodie an intense sense of satisfaction. Cowley was the closest thing he'd had to a father figure, and he was delighted that he'd been able to relieve his former boss of some of the guilt he still felt over Doyle's death. Cowley had lost other agents over the years, but for some reason, losing Doyle seemed to have hit him the hardest. 

While Doyle had known Cowley immediately, Murphy remained a complete stranger to him. Doyle admitted that Jax was in a category that he ruefully called his 'Twilight Zone'. There always seemed to be somebody or something he realised he knew but really didn't remember much about. 

"It's very creepy," Doyle had said when he'd first explained the sensation to Bodie. He also remembered how Doyle had told him it was rather like deja vu, and that Doyle had actually shivered at the thought. Bodie couldn't imagine what it must be like for his partner. 

The most painful reunion had been between Doyle and his mum. When Mrs. Doyle saw her boy for the first time in ten years, she burst into tears and threw her arms around him. Doyle held her, murmuring reassurances, but when he'd caught Bodie's eyes over Mrs. Doyle's grey head, Bodie knew. He could see it clearly in the pained expression that Doyle didn't remember his own mother. 

Bodie had to give Doyle credit, though. He never let on he didn't remember her, and since she clearly loved him, he knew that Doyle didn't have the heart to say anything to her. Bodie had sat on the sofa and watched Mrs. Doyle fuss over her boy,and hugging him to her breast every time she passed by him as she served tea and home-made biscuits. Oatmeal with raisins. "My Ray's favourite," Mrs. Doyle had said proudly as she passed the plate to Bodie. 

Doyle had cast several hopeless glances at Bodie, and each time, Bodie had nodded slightly and smiled encouragingly. Finally, Doyle began to relax and had enjoyed the rest of the visit, especially after his sister, Agnes, had arrived. She'd hugged him to within an inch of his life, and sat down beside him, touching his arm. Bodie knew from the look of relief in Doyle's eyes that he had, at least, recognized his sister. 

Now, whenever Doyle saw his family, Bodie knew that in spite of his lack of memory, he'd been able to forge a new relationship with his mother and that he loved her dearly. 

A sound from the garden brought Bodie out of his reverie. He glanced out and his breath caught in his throat. Doyle stood before the puppy, his violin resting on his shoulder. Doyle hadn't touched that bloody thing once since Bodie'd met him. No amount of cajoling from Bodie had been able to convince him to give it a try. That was one of the reasons Bodie had been on edge when he gave Doyle the puppy. He didn't want to dredge up painful memories; he only wanted Doyle to be happy. Bodie had agonised over the present for several weeks before he decided to go with his gut instinct and give it. Now he was glad he had. 

Bodie dried his hands and walked to the back door where he leaned on the frame, arms crossed, and enjoyed the scene before him. 

Doyle was crouched before the puppy. "Now this is how it works. You're a dancing dog, Bear," he explained. "When I play the music, you're going to dance. Got that, eh?" He grinned and ruffled Bear's fur before he straightened up and after a pause, began to play. 

The tune was lively and to Bodie's untrained ear, it was wonderful. He closed his eyes as he listened to the strains of music wafting through their garden. When he opened them, Doyle's own eyes were closed as he played. The puppy sat very still, his ears flicking back and forth. Doyle finally glanced down at the still figure staring up at him, and he shook his head with amusement. 

Chuckling, Doyle leaned down and gently encouraged the puppy up onto his haunches. "You're supposed to dance, Bear. Not sit. People want to see you dance. Come on. You can do it, eh?" Releasing Bear's little paw, Doyle began to play again. Bear put back his head and pointed his nose to the sky, howling along with Doyle's playing. He laughed hard enough to rake the bow across the strings, making them screech. 

"You're not a singing dog, Bear. You're a dancing dog!" Doyle admonished, laughing all the while. 

Bodie studied Doyle, who looked like he had finally found some measure of peace. Bodie drank in his face, alight with joy as he knelt down and once again encouraged the puppy upright onto his haunches. Bear balanced for barely a second before he tumbled onto his side in the soft grass, then rolled to his back, exposing his belly. Doyle laughed again and gently drew the tips of his fingers across the soft skin until the puppy's back leg started to jump with pleasure. Watching them, Bodie felt a lump rise in his throat and before he realised it, he was across the grass and on his knees beside Doyle. 

Doyle turned towards Bodie and gave him a heart-warming smile. Bodie smiled in return, putting his entire heart and soul into it, and pulled Doyle into his arms. In the glorious morning sunshine, in the garden surrounded by all of the flowers Doyle had cultivated, they kissed. 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> First published in the zine Secret Agent Men 11, by Requiem Publications.


End file.
